Gyroson adjusted his collar as the woman bolted past Hale heels clacking like a gunfight echoing off tile.
She didn't say a word.
Didn't even make eye contact.
Just vanished, red-faced and half-buttoned, like she'd been caught cheating on her own sanity.
Hale raised an eyebrow.
"What exactly is your job?"
Gyroson didn't flinch.
"Banging depressed women."
Hale stared.
"No, I meant professionally. What do you do professionally?"
Gyroson nodded solemnly.
"Yes. I bang depressed women... professionally."
Hale blinked harder.
"What the fuck do you do for a living?"
"Same thing," Gyroson replied, reaching for his cup of cold tea.
"It just comes with billing codes."
Hale dragged a hand down his face.
"Alright. According to your family, what do they think you do?"
Gyroson took a deep breath like he was about to recite Shakespeare.
"Freelance trauma therapist for emotionally unavailable divorcees with unresolved father issues and an above-average credit score."
A pause.
"And I file taxes under 'Consulting.'"
Before Hale could even respond, a high heel clacked back into existence.
The door cracked open—and she peeked in, holding her purse like a hostage.
"Sorry—I left my... um..."
Gyroson casually reached into his coat pocket.
"Your panties, darling?"
She nodded, red-faced, as he handed them over like a magician pulling silk from a hat.
"So..." she whispered, glancing at Hale and then back at Gyroson,
"...when's our next session, Dr. Daddy?"
Without missing a beat, Gyroson winked.
"Whenever I want, sweetheart.
I'll send the protection details with the session recap.
Rhyming always helps my clients... relax."
She smirked, about to say more but Hale cut in, deadpan:
"Your daughter called her boyfriend at your house."
She froze.
Snatched the panties from Gyroson's hand.
And ran like her soul had debts.
Door slammed.
Silence.
"You're unbelievable," Hale muttered.
Gyroson sipped his tea again.
"You're just jealous because I have better reviews than your entire romantic history."